B for Baker Street
by Riandra
Summary: Jumping on the 221B bandwagon, suggestions welcome! Chapter 9: Boys.
1. Bruja

(This drabble was born after reading Neil Gaiman's 'A Study in Emerald' – I couldn't help wondering what 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' would have been like if the Baskerville legend had actually been true... Note: _Bruja_ is Spanish for 'sorceress'.)

* * *

><p><em>...Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame...<em>

Watson looked up from the latest Strand with a shiver. "Honestly, Holmes... I still have my doubts as to your phosphorous theory."

Holmes arched a sardonic eyebrow. "You have a sound alternative?"

"Well, not as such, but... Holmes, you know as well as I that the real case had far too many loose ends! Why didn't the Hound savage Sir Henry as it did the others? Sir Charles, Selden... Mrs. Stapleton..." Watson shuddered at the memory. "Moreover, if it _was_ an ordinary dog, why didn't any of our shots seem to hit it? And don't tell me the fog threw off all of our aims again!"

Holmes frowned obstinately, but Watson wasn't having any of it.

"Holmes," he sighed, "we've both learned firsthand over the years that _anything_ is possible. Why are you so averse to the idea that we might have encountered the supernatural on this case?"

Holmes's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "Because the only theory that fits all the facts, Watson," he whispered, "I find too dreadful even to contemplate..."

That only Sir Henry's good heart had saved him from the ambitions of Beryl Garcia, Stapleton's devoted wife, and practising _bruja_...


	2. Bounce

(Inspired by 'Too Much Of A Good Thing' by gabrielsangel79. Set in the SH22 universe.)

* * *

><p>"Holmes, what the <em>zed?<em> Why are you using my living room furniture for an obstacle course at... two in the morning?!"

"I would have thought it perfectly obvious, Lestrade..."

"Come on, Holmes, I have to go to work in six hours! Why don't you just go for a walk or something?"

"I already have, twice; and before you ask, yes, I have been to the all night gym as well."

"And?"

"They asked me to leave when I broke their treadmill. Now will you _kindly_ tell Watson to give me a sedative?"

"No way, mister! You did this to yourself, so now you'll just have to wait for it to wear off, like everybody else."

"Need I remind you that my metabolism is considerably different to most people's?"

"Yeah, well, _most_ people aren't stupid enough to drink three energy drinks in an hour without reading the warnings on the label! Honestly, Sherlock, I'm amazed you didn't put yourself in hospital. Next time, try going to bed at a decent hour during a case, instead of spending all night on the 'net!"

Beth shook her head, resisting the strong urge to put him out of her misery with a blaster, and stomped back off to bed. She didn't have enough patience or energy of her own right now even to watch him bounce.


	3. Butterfly

Watson smiled reassuringly at the distressed couple, while Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully, expression unreadable as ever.

"And the servants heard nothing unusual?"

The husband patted his trembling wife's hand stiffly. "No, nothing. The maid had just looked in on the children, about twenty minutes earlier."

"Why so?"

"The children's na... er, our dog, Nana," the man explained, face turning pink. "She was barking furiously and couldn't be quieted. Liza took her upstairs to reassure her, before chaining her up in the garden."

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "At what time?"

"Around eight o'clock. My wife and I were attending a Christmas party. We only knew anything was wrong when Nana arrived at the door; she'd broken her chain."

"Dog had more sense than its masters," Watson murmured, low enough that only Holmes could hear.

The detective shot him a warning glance. "Pray continue, Mr. Darling," he said smoothly. "Why have you refrained from notifying Scotland Yard?"

Mr. Darling's face grew redder still, exchanging an uncomfortable look with his wife. "Because, Mr. Holmes, we feared the police would either believe us mad, or guilty of the... the abduction ourselves." He took a piece of notepaper from his pocket and unfolded it.

Watson's breath caught. Across the paper meandered a trail of inky footprints, human shaped, but as tiny and delicate as a butterfly's...

* * *

><p>AN: Was trying to work out when in Holmes's career this might have happened. It must have been quite late, since stuffed animals, like Michael's teddy bear, were only available in shops from 1902 onwards.


	4. Bells

Watson sighed, closing the sitting room door. "Holmes, why didn't you take the case?" Those poor parents... "It wouldn't have hurt to visit the scene of the crime, at least."

"And what crime might that be?" Holmes countered wearily. "Abduction by persons unknown – since one kidnapper could hardly have spirited three children away unaided – and at least one of whom would seem to have the gift of flight!" He snorted, sinking further into his armchair. "Or perhaps you can explain why there were no signs of forced entry? Footprints only on the windowsill, indeed!"

Watson frowned, looking back over his notes: the nursery's bureau drawers turned out; a needle and spool of thread on the daughter's bed; the youngest son's stuffed bear missing, besides the eldest son's umbrella and top hat...

And these footprints... so perfect, no sign of nib marks on the paper, as one would expect if they had been drawn...

"Perhaps your current fantastic theory?" Holmes's sardonic voice cut through Watson's thoughts. "My dear Watson, I can tolerate most of your romantic nonsense, but I draw the line at believing in... in _fairies_!" He rose abruptly and stalked out of the room, but Watson barely noticed him go. His ears had pricked at the sound of a faint, tinkling gasp above his head, almost sounding like tiny bells...

* * *

><p>AN: Don't panic, still one more 'B' to go for this thread! =)


	5. Beckoning

Watson rose hastily, gaze sweeping the mantelpiece. There, behind the jack-knife, a faint glow, almost like that of a firefly... Drawing closer, his eyes widened – that was no mere insect lying on Holmes's mail! Unless he were dreaming, what he beheld was an actual _fairy_... and dreadfully ill, if her fading light was any indication.

Hesitant to manhandle the fragile creature, Watson carefully removed the topmost envelope, lowering it to the hearthrug. Through Holmes's magnifying glass, he could see that the poor thing was barely breathing. What could he do? No use asking himself what Holmes would do, he'd already made _his_ position... clear...

Combining his own instincts with Holmes's training, Watson murmured, "_I _believe in fairies." The fairy's wings fluttered, hands seeming to clasp feebly, then again, eyes pleading. Praying he'd understood, Watson began clapping...

* * *

><p>Returning a minute later, Holmes gaped at the impossible sight of Watson suspended in mid-air, beaming... and what the devil was that... <em>thing <em>circling his head?!

"I think we're needed, old man." Watson floated lower and grasped Holmes's shoulder as the... fairy? threw a cloud of shimmering dust in his face, making him sneeze. "Coming?"

Despite any misgivings, Holmes's heart leapt at the prospect of another adventure with his dearest friend; next moment, he also found himself rising off the floor, the open window beckoning...


	6. Broken

Mrs. Hudson gave her squirming patient a look of stern warning, who finally submitted, slumping wearily into the kitchen chair. Witch hazel was her usual remedy for bruises, but the best treatment for a blackened eye was cold compresses, as Dr. Watson would surely agree... were he here to give his opinion.

The landlady sighed. Still shaken herself from her lodger's reappearance, she could well imagine that Dr. Watson had also been less than overjoyed at discovering that his best friend had kept him in the dark all this time. Judging by Mr. Holmes's dismayed expression, however – what she could see of it beneath the wet pad – he had failed to predict the good doctor's precise reaction to the news.

"...I don't understand..." The bewildered murmur broke her heart as much as it filled her with exasperation. "I told him why I had to..."

She was about to reply, when both were startled by a knock at the back door.

"Lestrade," the detective sighed, waving her away. "Tell him everything will be in place for tonight."

But the man smiling shyly when she opened the door was a far more welcome sight, glancing nervously past her towards the kitchen. She nodded, breathing a silent prayer of thankfulness as he entered – some things could be bruised, it seemed, but never wholly broken.


	7. Breakfast

Watson was mildly surprised when he came downstairs to find Holmes already at the breakfast table, that morning's Times in front of him.

NIGHTMARE ON FLEET STREET AT AN END, the headlines proclaimed.

SLASHER BARBER FOUND BY POLICE, MURDERED IN BAKEHOUSE CELLAR WITH VICTIMS

TWO LAW OFFICIALS ADDED TO DEATH TOLL

BAKEHOUSE PROPRIETRESS MISSING, WANTED FOR QUESTIONING

"So it _was_ the barber," Watson murmured, rescuing one corner of the paper from the marmalade. "Your suspicions about Todd were correct, then, Holmes," he said aloud.

The detective smiled grimly as he poured his coffee. "That amazes you?"

Watson sat down himself, folding the Times back up and gesturing pointedly at Holmes's empty plate. "No, although I am somewhat surprised that Lestrade didn't consult you on the matter at all."

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. "Scotland Yard _is_ occasionally capable of seeing what is right under their noses. To own the truth, Watson..." and the doctor frowned in concern as the detective tried and failed to suppress a shudder, "from what Lestrade let slip on his way home last night, I find myself immensely thankful that neither of us were present during that raid."

Watson nodded gravely, turning his attention back to the spread before them. Any gruesome details from the case could wait until he'd had a chance to digest his breakfast.


	8. Bewilderment

Watson sank gratefully into the booth, sighing as he surveyed the mostly deserted pub. Not the worst establishment he'd ever celebrated in – he just wished he wasn't drinking alone...

"Pardon me..." Watson was startled to see a finely-dressed man in a green velvet coat standing before him, smiling hesitantly. "May I join you?"

"Please," Watson smiled back, looking his drinking companion over with mild interest as he sat down opposite. Aristocratic features, long windswept locks... 'Byronesque' would be an apt description. Ordinarily, Watson might have been curious about why an aristocrat was drowning his sorrows here – but right now, he was simply grateful for the company. "_Slàinte__._"

His companion blinked, then hastily lifted his own glass. "Yes, quite. I'm the Doctor, by the way," he added suddenly.

Watson's lips twitched. "So am I." The Doctor's head tilted, looking at him oddly. "Just finished training at Netley," Watson explained, "I ship out to India tomorrow."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Were you at St. Bart's before that, by any chance?"

Watson chuckled. "That obvious, is it?"

"Only to a keen observer," his companion replied, sad-eyed smile becoming enigmatic. "But I'd best be off now," standing abruptly. "People to help, and all that – you know how it is."

"I expect I will..." Watson murmured to the Doctor's vanishing back, shaking his head in bewilderment.


	9. Boys

Watson tried not to glower as Holmes looked seriously at the ragged urchin in front of him. "Now, Oliver, do you understand how important it is that you are not identified? If Fagin realises that you are one of Wiggins's lot..."

"Don' worry, guv'nor," Wiggins piped up. "Ollie's run with us long enough ter know wot's wot."

Oliver grinned at the praise. "I'll be careful, sir... guv'nor," he corrected hastily.

Holmes nodded. "You remember what to do if Mr. Sikes returns?"

"Get caught stealing, ask for Inspector Lestrade."

"Good lad. Now, Wiggins..."

Watson saw the pair on their way, then returned to the sitting room in great indignation. "Really, Holmes! It's one thing to use the boys as spies, but sending _Oliver_ into that den of thieves... The lad is almost as green as when Wiggins found him!"

"And there lies his advantage. He's not been an Irregular long enough for the Dodger to know his face." Holmes sighed. "Watson, if I had any other recourse, I would take it, believe me."

"No doubt," Watson replied grimly. "I only hope you can reconcile that line of reasoning with your conscience later."

Holmes sniffed, refraining from pointing out what should have been obvious to his friend: he would be equally unable to forgive himself were misfortune to befall any of his boys...


End file.
